Partners
by VikiWiks
Summary: Johnlock, John is sick of being treated badly by Sherlock so the latter comes up with an idea to solve the problem. Meanwhile a new case takes them to Oxford. Will probably do smut at some point, so rated M for that and swearing.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi, this story started as a one-shot but I have thought up a whole story out of it, reviews and suggestions are welcome. Hope you enjoy!**

"Goodbye," Sherlock smiled gracefully yet as the door slammed shut his face transformed into one of tremendous and unrelenting disgust. "Eurgh, I thought he would never leave!" He exclaimed and flopped onto the sofa. "John, why did he keep touching me?"

"I believe that was flirting Sherlock." John replied offhandedly whilst retreating to the kitchen endeavouring to finally do the dishes.

"Flirting? I've briefly studied the psychology of courtship, and I'm certain that touching someone to that extent is not flirting, it's manhandling."

John let out a little laugh, "studied," he muttered to himself, smiling.

"It's not a subject matter worth much experimentation," Sherlock called out in defence, "reading a few journals on interpersonal attraction is sufficient for the Work."

John sighed to himself, "Sherlock, what is it with you and selective hearing. Why is it you can hear the most silent comment uttered a room away but when I say, 'don't leave out a decomposing pig's heart on the table because I'm bringing someone over', you conveniently don't hear?"

"The term 'selective hearing' is rather self explanatory, John."

The doctor scowled reminiscing for the thousandth time, that night a few days ago where he thought that maybe if he brought home a man for the first time in ages, instead of a woman, that that man would not be so easily repelled by Sherlock as the women had been. It turned out to be a grave error on his part. He could remember clearly the guy dry retching at the smell and leaving pretty sharpish; the night had been going so well...

John's musings were interrupted by the sound of a laptop booting up- his laptop to be more precise.

"_Sherlock_, are you using my laptop?"

"_John_, why do you ask questions that you evidently know the answer to?"

John padded into the room, tea-towel in hand to the sight of the detective sitting up at the dining table, oblivious to his deed.

"How many times have I told you to leave it alone? You have a fucking Macbook Pro for goodness sake! What could you possibly want with my ratty old Dell?"

Sherlock calmly looked up from the screen, pausing his flow of typing to say, "Convenience," before returning to his previous activity.

John became visibly frustrated, his breathing increasingly rapid and his jaw began to clench.

"Sherlock, I-" he halted. Sherlock could sense a rant coming on, concluding that they really needed a case that required them to leave the flat before John imploded. He made a cursory glance at his friend who appeared to be going through his calming mantra for when his anger got the best of him. This mantra tended to start with deep breaths and ended with him going out for a walk, which, in Sherlock's perspective was him pulling a strop.

He was about to turn and do his going out routine in 5... 4... 3... 2...

"You know what I hate about living with you? You make me feel like shit sometimes. I mean when it's great, it's wonderful, brilliant even. But then there are times like this, when you undermine any authority, or dignity I may have so that you can have, what you call _convenience_. I was an army surgeon for fuck's sake! I have lived through so much, and yet here I am, the wrong side of thirty running around after a man who treats me like... You know what, Moriarty was right. I am your puppy. Your fucking Labrador!" He paced and threw the teatowel on the floor. After a second he realised he'd have to pick that up later and so snatched it up and took it to the kitchen, where he stood, hands on the counter trying to prevent himself from punching Sherlock squarely in the nose.

His friend remained glued to the chair, frozen in fact, his expression blank canvas as his brain for the first time in a very long while actually failed him. He blinked repeatedly and then frowned.

The sound of John re-entering the room alerted him to reality as John shrugged on his coat.

"John," Sherlock called quietly, internally shocked by the timid voice that left his lips.

"John," he tried again, this time with a bit more control over his voice. His efforts succeeded as older man's hand refrained from turning the door knob.

"Don't leave."

"Goodbye Sherlock." He opened the door, only to find the detective bolt out of his seat to the door in order to slam it shut again.

John turned, refusing to make eye contact, staring at the wall behind Sherlock as he folded his arms.

"If we fight right now, I can promise you, I will win. Let me out."

"No."

Their eyes met and instantly John's resolve lessened, he mentally chastised himself for his stupid reoccurring weakness to Sherlock bloody Holmes.

"I am sorry for taking your laptop."

The shock of actually receiving an apology from Sherlock dislodged another brick out of his wall of resolve, but 'this time' he thought to himself, 'this time, I'm going to retain whatever is left of my dignity and stop running around after him'. He cleared his throat and said, "thank you for the apology Sherlock, but I-" John looked away, and for a moment he wasn't sure he could go through with it. "I cannot do this anymore. You are the most brilliant man I have ever met, the adventures, the danger- nothing compares. It's just... I don't want to be your assistant forever. I don't think my ego could stand it much longer. Today it's my laptop, tomorrow..." He couldn't think of an example, but he knew one was not necessary, he was certain Sherlock had a plethora of examples of times he has done such actions.

"You can't leave. You belong here."

"Sherlock-"

"With me."

"You've got Mrs Hudson and-"

"Partners."

"What?"

"Would you stay if we were partners?"

John gawked at Sherlock.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a moment of silence between them, it pressed in on them almost like the sensation of drowning. Such a proposal took John by surprise and he sincerely did not know what to do or say. One thing he was certain of was that the next thing he said would be crucial, a pivotal moment in both their lives. He was about to speak when a scream pierced through their underwater solitude like a great big ferry ploughing through the water.

Sherlock furrowed his brow not taking his eyes off John, "Mrs Hudson?" he yelled.

Frantic footsteps could be heard trundling up the stairs on the other side of the door, yet still neither man would dare look away from each other. There was a knock on the door to the flat, Sherlock's hand moved swiftly to open it, as if magnetically drawn to the drama. He was stopped by John's hand on his arm, tentatively he held Sherlock's puzzled gaze.

"Yes." he announced.

"Brilliant," Sherlock grinned and went back to unveiling whatever horror lay beyond the door.

John took a step back remembering that anyone could be behind it, trying to make himself somewhat focused, only to find that it was an almost impossible task. He had just committed himself to Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. The man who was both the centre and the bane of his existence, to think that moments before he had seriously contemplated leaving, the thought of which seemed utterly ludicrous in hindsight.

"John!" A familiar voice rang through the flat as the door opened, "Mr Holmes. I need your help."

"See John, I told you I didn't scare him off."

"Tom?" Sherlock moved aside to reveal failed date number... well he had lost count but Tom was the man who could not stomach the pig's heart experiment. The man stood visibly shaking, his hands and jacket splattered with blood.

"I'm sorry," he spluttered, "I didn't know where else to go."

"Right, sit down, start from the beginning, be succinct yet thorough." the detective waved toward the sofa and sat on his chair expectantly. "John, tea, if you will."

Tom went and done as he was told.

"Wait, hang on, surely we should get that blood off?"

"Evidence. What on earth is wrong with you today John?"

He rolled his eyes and made only one cup of tea, deciding that Sherlock, regardless of recent developments, was undeserving of any beverage made by himself. While he was in the kitchen, Tom began his tale.

"Erm... I guess it really all started a few months back. My sister, she was just starting at Oxford, and I visited her in her first term, just to you know, she how she was and that. I was only there a couple of days but I could tell something was different... she had changed somehow. Like, before, she was a lot more extrovert, always busy. She used to do tap-dance at this stage school, she was really good actually," he smiled, then caught Sherlock's eye and immediately realised that Sherlock couldn't give a toss about her dancing. "Right, anyway. Basically I knew something was up and so I did a bit of stooping and it turned out that there's this secret cult thing going on there, in Walthamstow College. At first I thought it might have been like some sort of copy cat of an American fraternity or something, oh thanks," He took a mug of tea gratefully, made just how he liked it, a darkness drew across his face when the focus made him realise that his hands were still red and sticky, smudges of dark red adhered itself to the porcelain, turning his stomach slightly.

John put a hand on his shoulder, "do you want to have a bit of a break before you have to retell your story?" he asked warmly, his instincts as a doctor shining through.

Tom took a sip of his tea, Camomile.

"I'm fine, I can keep going," he reassured. John settled in his chair and leant forward, "Go on," he coaxed.

"This cult is a proper, Scientology type deal, which I don't really understand, these are meant to be the brightest people in the country, but,"

Sherlock motioned for him to hurry up.

"They are Hedonists, proper full on Hedonists. They think that they are teaching a one true philosophy."

"They believe in the happiness for the individual? To do what you like when you like?" John suggested.

"Pleasure is the only intrinsic good." Sherlock explained, "there are multiple branches of the Hedonistic school of thought, all of which, to my knowledge, accept that one cannot simply do whatever they like, for that would ultimately cause them greater pain. Pain being the contrasting element to pleasure."

"Yeah, I think so, but it's worse than that. They have these rituals... It's why I'm like this. I followed her, my sister, she's called Chloe by the way, I just realised I didn't say that before,"

Sherlock motioned for the highlights once more.

"And I followed her to the basement of this pub called The Lion, just off the High Street, where they were doing this ritual type thing, and I tried to remain in the back, but someone saw me and realised that I wasn't meant to be there and I was ushered out by this Scottish guy and-"

"You really are dreadful at telling stories. So, they threatened you, you went home and then they attempted to frame you for murder weeks later?"

"I, well... yes... Can I wash off the blood now please? I think I'm going to be sick."

John made movements to get a bucket and a sponge.

"Wait." Sherlock warned, raising an arm. "Who was the victim?"

"I don't know his name. His _real_ name I mean."

"Oh for goodness sake, a _rent boy_? Really?" Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and massaged his temples.

John sat there looking rather uncomfortable, "Okay so what do we do?"

"Hand yourself in."

"What?" The other two men cried in unison.

"It will be easier to prove your innocence with you appearing honest from the start. Also a couple of days behind bars may protect you from whatever this 'cult' as you called them may have planned next." He got out his phone and began typing away, "I'll arrange for you to be looked after to a certain extent."

Tom looked to John pleadingly.

"Tom, we'll fix this. I trust Sherlock with my life and so should you. I assume you're allowed to get cleaned up now?"

"Hmm." Sherlock nodded and walked into his room.

"Come on, I'll show you to the bathroom, I'll get you a towel, some clean clothes."

"Thanks John, thank you so much. I'm sorry about all this, and the other night, too. It's not your fault that he said what he said."

The true crux of what infuriated John was laid bare. The pig's heart experiment, though appalling was not the nail in the coffin of that relationship but what Sherlock had said to poor Tom before the smell got the worst of him.

_'Oh, I didn't realise you were bringing a conquest home tonight.'_

_'Sherlock?'_

_'Hm? Ah, I see, the experiment, well, it's crucial to a case I'm afraid.' _

_'What case?' Tom asked._

_'Don't worry your pretty little head about it.'_

_'Excuse me?' the younger man responded, appearing insulted by Sherlock's quick dismissal of him._

_Sherlock took off his safety glasses and surveyed the man. John knew what was coming._

_'A twenty something who studied Event Management in the East Midlands, with an anxiety disorder couldn't possibly handle the sort of things that myself and John dabble in. And you've _

_latched yourself onto an older man to do what for yourself exactly? Better yourself? Why don't you take a yoga class or something, find your Zen. John I would like a hand with this at some point, if it's not too much of an inconvenience to you.' _

_He replaced the glasses and regained his work, opening a test tube from which the most petulant stink of rotting flesh emanated. John's face contorted into revulsion, and his toyboy looking utterly embarrassed fled the flat dry retching on his way out. _

"It's fine Tom, don't worry about it," he said gravely, "what matters now is clearing your name." He led the man to the bathroom, and went to get some towels from the cupboard, whilst doing so Sherlock passed him with his laptop under his arm.

"Is that _your_ laptop there Sherlock?"

"Evidently."

"Good." he remarked as he went to get some clothes.

Sherlock let the twitch of a smile show as he settled down at the dinning table, proud that his good deed for the day got some recognition.

After John had made sure that his friend was okay he walked back to the main living area, unsure of where to begin. He scratched the back of his head awkwardly and cleared his throat.

"Um, Sherlock."

"Hmm."

"I know everything sort of just happened, as it always does. But... are we not going to talk about what happened at all?"

"Why? Your _friend_ just explained his predicament, once you've taken him to see Lestrade we can start researching tonight."

"Are you being serious? Right now, is this you actually being serious?"

Sherlock looked to John with great lamentation, "John, I am serious ninety-nine per cent of the time. Currently we are on a case, whatever thing you need to work out with your man friend you don't need to share with me."

"But you said-"

"Ah ah ah! I don't want to know."

"Hm. So much for partners eh?" John looked crestfallen at such ruthlessness.

Sherlock turned round again. "Oh, so that's what this is about. I got my own laptop out, surely that is a sign of my respect for your feelings, as my partner and equal?"

"But what you asked of me, it's a big commitment, and prior to today I had not seriously considered it. We do have our moments, but I never seriously believed that you-"

Sherlock's phone rang, which he answered immediately, glad to be called away from the conversation that sounded dangerously close to emotional territory.

"Okay, he'll be out shorty."

"Thomas!" Sherlock shouted, "Your carriage awaits you."

"Lestrade has agreed to hand him in discreetly for us, he's waiting outside. I thought you'd want to go with him, though you don't _have_ to."

"No, no, I wouldn't want him scared and alone. I'll be back later." He stood closely behind Sherlock's chair, unsure of what to do. If he kissed him that would seem a bit underwhelming for their first kiss and if he didn't do anything then he would be undermining Sherlock's proposal, which they haven't had the opportunity to deal with fully. Ultimately he concluded that Sherlock seemed to want to make things work, in his own Sherlockian way, and so settled for a hand on the shoulder that rested slightly longer than he would have otherwise allowed it, then went to get Tom, both leaving only a few moments later. Sherlock opened a new window on his internet browser, as the glare of the screen hit his eyes he hummed in gratification, "The game is on."

**A/N: I had a day off and was like, hey, quite a few people are reading this! Which kinda spurred me on to write more. Reviews welcome, what I do with the story can change depending on what people want. Also, I refrained from using a real Oxford College, Walthamstow College is totally made up. I'll try to update within a week.**


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